


Twilight is not good for maidens

by bhaer



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grisettes gone wild, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian roommates!, Post Barricades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>MERRY CHRISTMAS, MORGAN! I hope you like it!</p>
<p>A very big thank you to Marianne, who helped me with all the icky plotty bits, and my gorgeous beta Perry. Also I stole Alain as banker's name from Rachel. So, um, thanks for the name.</p></blockquote>





	Twilight is not good for maidens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckwhatduck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckwhatduck/gifts).



“...Women, unhappy women, we are not in the habit of bestowing much thought on them. We trust to the women not having received a man's education, we prevent their reading, we prevent their thinking, we prevent their occupying themselves with politics; will you prevent them from going to the dead-house this evening, and recognizing your bodies?”

* * *

 

“H-he was smiling,” Irma choked, her wails filling up the cramped apartment with something resembling warmth. “Oh my God, he was smiling.”

* * *

 

Combeferre lights his pipe methodically, without enjoyment. It is a ritual he’s been socialized to perform and one he does with grace. Irma watches with interest. She follows the haze of smoke as it hovers sluggishly around his head.

“So quickly you want to forget?” she teases, running a hand down his chest. It is comfortable in the December chill.

His eyes are distant. He holds out the pipe. Irma shakes her head.

* * *

 

“He doesn’t love you.” Grantaire took relish in the finality of it. When Irma smiled serenely in response, he seemed disappointed. So he continued.

“Combeferre had no thought for boot-stitching or dimples or pretty little linen gowns. He will bring you pearls only to explain the process by which the oyster vomits them out and even then, will not care for your appreciative kisses, for he has heard the sound of his own voice in authority and that is all he ever wanted.”

Irma leaned towards him, her abalone necklace falling forward. “His prick’s bigger than yours.”

* * *

 

“My roommate doesn’t like you."

“Oh?”

“She won’t go for medical men. Prefers bank executives.”

* * *

 

The smell of gunpowder lingers all day. She finds herself pressing her nose into the small clay jar of salt, of leaning too deeply into the bubbling pot of stew, of, finally, hiding under her sweaty quilt because anything is better than inhaling another lungful of sulfur.

And the noise! Gunshots and girlish screams and guttural yelps and every one digging between her ribs like a knife. She stitches as neatly as she can. Poppies and daisies and bright, bright snapdragons.

And then, when Arlette from next door runs inside to announce the outcome (they are surely dead; she knows this as well as she knows that Arlette, spluttering over her words, is an idiot), it all seems so much simpler. Put on a pot of tea. Drink several too-strong cups and listen to Irma absently mutter that he preferred honey over sugar for “ethical concerns”. For a moment she can hear his low, wandering voice, explaining the mistreatment of someone-or-other in some faraway, terribly exotic land. It does not affect her. She does not cry. She splurges and adds an extra teaspoon of sugar.

Irma stands up, stretches, and her face begins to crumple. It smooths itself soon. “Will you come?” Irma asks, typing her poke bonnet with shaking hands.

No. There’s stitching to do.

* * *

 

“D’you remember? When we went to the Palais Royal and Grantaire tried to dance with me?” Irma has stopped crying after half a bottle of wine.

“You wouldn’t dance with him and I would not let him take me to breakfast. Your interaction was a slight, mine was a death sentence.”

* * *

 

The first time Irma tried hashish, she spluttered and coughed and promptly fell asleep. Combeferre stayed in the little kitchenette, puffing contentedly on the pipe, arms crossed.

“Grantaire calls you Floréal,” he said by way of introduction as she came home, arms laden with pocket handkerchiefs to embroider.

“You’re Monsieur Combeferre,” she replied coldly. He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“Irma warned that you do not like me.”

She flung down her basket of linens and took a deep breath. “I hear you’re interested in education.” It was meant to sting and it did. There was a momentary flood of panic in his cloudy eyes.

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said quickly, gathering courage. “I don’t think Irma shares your interests one bit.”

“And what do you know of Irma’s interests?”

She felt her face burn.

“We’ve been friends since before we could speak and roommates since we were old enough to live on our own. I’d like to think I know something of Irma and what she wants and what she needs and I’m here to tell you, Monsieur, that she doesn’t need none of that Rights of Man, Society of Angers _bull_ shit that I know you peddle in.” She began stitching furiously, pricking herself and wincing and feeling too full.

Combeferre hummed happily to himself and, finding his companion resolute in her work, finally left.

* * *

 

And then, one day, Combeferre is gone and Irma stops wearing the abalone necklace and all is right in the world.

Alain comes one day in May. He is loud and red-faced and nearly always drunk. He thinks Floréal is a hilarious name. “Look at her geraniums!” He bellows. “Floréal!” She laughs airily and pours him more brandy. The sex is painful at best but she buys her first silk gown with his francs, so she supposes it all evens out.

* * *

 

“When did it all go to hell? God, _he was smiling_. Reeked of liquor. You should have seen him. I don’t understand. What did he care? What did he care about any of it?” Irma has awoken in a haze of tears and nausea and is huddled by the fire. It lights up her face, skin the color of chestnuts and hair falling out of two braids in frenzied curls. She is beautiful. Her nose has a vague downward turn that gives her a regal air and her lips, full and pink, need no rouge to stand out. She is the prettiest boot-stitcher in all of Paris.

“He called me Floréal again, and made fun of Alain. He was drunk. He must have continued drinking.”

Irma looks up sharply. “I like Floréal. It sounds like the name of a princess.”

She smoothes out the wrinkles of Irma’s shawl and resists the urge to cradle her. “I’m no princess.”

“Hush, you don’t know that. Who’s your father? You don’t know, do you? He could be a king somewhere. You _are_ Floréal. Grantaire was right.”

“Do I really look pear-shaped to you?”

Irma smiles in spite of herself.

“Like a _real_ king. William the Conqueror and all that. I’m trying to compliment you, you absolute goose. You’re pretty like a princess. You have the right chin and all. I think mine’s too pointy.” She shivers and Irma smiles.

“Your chin is perfectly fine.”

Irma’s retort is drowned in soft, wet kisses.

“...You?”

“ _You_?”

They blink at each other in the firelight.

“Combeferre knew.” It’s the only thing she can think of saying. She regrets every cold glance and malicious muttering. She regrets so, so much.

Irma pulls herself up and bites her bottom lip. “You know, there’s only one way to honor his memory then.”

And they fall again.

**Author's Note:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS, MORGAN! I hope you like it!
> 
> A very big thank you to Marianne, who helped me with all the icky plotty bits, and my gorgeous beta Perry. Also I stole Alain as banker's name from Rachel. So, um, thanks for the name.


End file.
